Vultures in the Sky

by Todd Downing

  “What’s the matter with him?” King demanded in a sharp frightened voice.

  Rennert straightened up.

  “This man,” he said soberly, “is dead.”

  2

  Watchers in the Sky (10:20 AM.)

  “Dead?”

  The word stuck in King’s throat, obstructed by a sick gulp in the taut cords. He stepped back, one hand groping for the seat behind him, and stared at the face of the man across the aisle as if unable to take his eyes from it.

  Rennert cast a comprehensive glance down the length of the car.

  The gray-haired man in the seat behind sat in the same rigid posture but he was staring now at Rennert’s face as he had stared before at the woodwork above the doorway. There was an odd dazed look in his liquid light-blue eyes, as if he had been jerked violently out of a reverie and were trying to order his thoughts. The tall man on the other side was leaning slightly forward and peering with his dark glasses at the black arc of hair that topped the back of the seat. The woman in black taffeta seemed not to have noticed the disturbance, as she continued to hold the book in a steady hand, her gaze intent on its lines.

  Across the aisle from her the little porter was straining to open a window.

  Rennert called him.

  He looked around, nodded his head with a quick bird-like movement and came forward. In his eagerness he stumbled against a battered hat-box of black grained leather which stood in the aisle, against the seat of the gray-haired man. He stopped, picked it up and placed it upon the vacant seat behind. He moved forward again, a curious suggestion of a trot in his short-legged gait, and came to a halt before Rennert, his quick black eyes searching his face.

  “Yes, sir?” his English was mechanical.

  “Find the conductor,” Rennert told him, “ask him to come into this car as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As he started to move forward he glanced down at the seat beside which Rennert stood. Not a muscle moved in his wooden face and his eyes were small unmoving pebbles. It was a strange anomaly of a face—that of an old old man, with the aspect of leather and corrugated with wrinkles, set on the yet unformed body of a youth. His hair was black and vigorous, with the mere suggestion of a curl rippling through it.

  “Get the conductor,” Rennert said sharply, “at once.”

  “Yes, sir,” the porter took his eyes from the countenance of the dead man and kept them averted as he ambled toward the door.

  Rennert turned to King, who stood at his elbow, a fixed stare on his face. “What happened?”

  King looked at him blankly for a moment and said in a smothered voice: “I don’t know. After we got out of the tunnel I just happened to glance over there and saw him—like that. I thought he had fainted. I went to get the conductor.” He tightened his grip upon the back of the chair. “I didn’t know he was dead.”

  “You say he is dead?” the man with the stiff gray hair rested a hand upon the edge of his seat and leaned forward. His voice was low and well modulated and only a faint trace of cultured precision betrayed a foreign origin. The hand which lay upon the green fabric was a sensitive one, with long tapering fingers.

  Rennert nodded as he studied the man’s face.

  It was a strikingly handsome face, with a curious mingling of asceticism and virility in its finely cut features. It had the bleached pallor that comes from long confinement indoors. The nose was thin with a slight flaring of the nostrils. The hair above the wide forehead was, Rennert saw now, not as gray as it had appeared at first sight. It might have been until fairly recently dark brown, but now was shot through with gray. The full lips gave the impression of being held in temporary immobility and lent a note of sensuality oddly at variance with the rest of the features.

  “But he was alive a few minutes ago,” the man went on, “just before we entered the tunnel.” His eyes had lost some of their mildness and there lurked in them now a sharpness, an unrelaxing vigilance which he could not entirely mask.

  “You are sure of that?”

  “Certainly, I saw him glance back over his shoulder.”

  “What’s the matter?” the tall man had stepped forward and stood in the center of the aisle, looking down at the side of the Mexican’s face. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his worn corduroy trousers, bulging the cloth as if they were doubled into fists.

  “It seems,” Rennert said, “that this man died while we were passing through the tunnel.”

  The other emitted a long-drawn-out whistle of surprise. He stood for a moment, a frown contorting his features. His face was long and roughly featured, with a squared-off jaw and flat cheeks. His mouth was small and not unpleasant. What held Rennert’s gaze was the sunburn. It was the worst case which he had ever seen in long years of experience along the sun-baked reaches of the Rio Grande. The man’s face might have been seared unmercifully with a flame. The skin must have been unusually white before its exposure but now it was a virulent red, with dried brownish particles clinging to it like scales. Seen in combination with the blank dark glasses with concave lenses, it gave the effect of a grotesque mask.

  “What was the matter with him?” the question came in a soft even voice.

  “That remains to be seen.”

  As Rennert turned his head at the sound of footsteps and excited voices in the passage, he saw the blue eyes of the man in the seat fixed with curious intentness upon the side of the other’s trousers, where the fists bulged the corduroy.

  “¡Pues, hombre, te digo que no puede ser! Es imposible—”

  The conductor stood just inside the door, transfixed by shock. He was short and plump, with a lunar face and eyes that protruded in an unreadable stare behind the thick lenses of huge tortoise-shell spectacles.

  “This man,” Rennert gestured toward the seat by his side, “is dead. I asked the porter to call you at once.”

  He fixed Rennert with his stare, then moved forward and bent over the inert figure. He shook it by the shoulder but withdrew his hand as if he had experienced an electric shock. His lips mumbled something unintelligible as he turned to Rennert.

  “What—?” he stopped as if at a loss for words.

  Rennert guessed that his English had fled along with his composure and said in Spanish: “I found him like this—dead—when we came out of the tunnel just now. He evidently died while we were passing through it, since he was alive shortly before.”

  Relief had flooded over the Mexican’s face. “Ah, señor,” he shrugged his pleasure, “you speak Spanish! It is well. My English is very very little. I—”

  “Is there a doctor on this train?” Rennert cut short his flow of words.

  “A doctor?” another shrug and a drawing-down of the corners of the lower lip. “No, señor, I am very sorry but there is no doctor.” He pulled out a massive gold watch and consulted it hopefully. “In forty-five minutes we arrive in Saltillo. There we will find a doctor.”

  Rennert frowned. “And in the meantime?”

  Yet another shrug, expressive of matter-of-fact acceptance of the inevitable. “In the meantime, señor, there is nothing to do. There will be authorities in Saltillo who will know about the regulations in the case of a death on the train. Myself, I do not know. This is my first run on this line. I was transferred yesterday from the run between Monterrey and Torreón because of the strike.”

  Rennert was conscious of the scrutiny of the three men about them. “Is there some place where I can speak to you in private?” he asked.

  The conductor looked doubtful.

  “There is a compartment up there. Why can’t we use that?” Rennert suggested.

  A decisive shake of the head. “It is occupied, señor—by a lady. We cannot go there.”

  “The smoker, then. It might be well to have the porter cover this man and stay with him until we get to Saltillo.”

  “¡Cómo no!” the conductor turned to the porter, who was standing in the door, a quiet little gnome whose eyes glinte
d as they darted from one face to the other. He gave staccato orders. The porter vanished.

  The corduroy-clad figure still stood planted in the center of the aisle, his bulk swaying slightly to and fro with the motion of the train. “What’s the confab been about?” he demanded of Rennert. “What are they going to do with the body?”

  “It will have to stay here until we get to Saltillo, I’m afraid. A doctor can examine it then.”

  The other grimaced slightly. “Thank God it’s not far to Saltillo. In this weather—” he wheeled about abruptly and lurched back toward his seat. A hush had settled again upon the car.

  The man in the seat behind sank back against the cushion and passed a hand across his eyes. Rennert thought, but could not be sure, that his lips were moving, although no words came from them.

  King still stood, holding tightly to the back of his seat and staring out the window opposite.

  The porter trotted in with a sheet. They stood aside as he tossed it over the body and tucked in the edges with as much unconcern as if he had been making a berth.

  The head of the gray-haired man was bent and his fingers were going swiftly through the motions of the cross.

  There was a choking sound and King sank onto his seat.

  The porter stood up. “¿Estâ bueno?” he addressed the conductor.

  “Sí. Quédate aquí hasta que Ueguemos a Saltillo.”

  “Bueno.”

  The conductor turned to Rennert. “¿Pues, señor?”

  Rennert nodded and led the way to the smoker.

  The room was close and warm and the odor of cigar and cigarette smoke still hung heavy in the air.

  Rennert stood for a moment, his lips pursed in thought. At a sudden resolve he took from the pocket of his coat a long manila envelope, opened it and tendered it to the conductor.

  “Here are my credentials,” he said, “to prove my identity. Any of your immigration officials will recognize them.”

  The Mexican took the envelope and glanced through its contents. His eyes might have been those of a fish peering out of the glass walls of an aquarium. “¡Pues!” he exclaimed softly. “The Treasury Department of the United States!” He carefully returned the contents of the envelope and handed it back to Rennert. There was a slight note of deference in his voice as he asked: “Very well, señor, what is it that you wish?”

  Rennert lit a cigarette. “I should like to ask a few questions with regard to this man who has just died.”

  “Cómo no.” Ready acquiescence, noncommittal attention, and a certain amount of defensive wariness shaded the words.

  “Did this man get on the train at San Antonio?”

  The conductor drew from his pocket a sheaf of envelopes and shuffled through them. He opened one of them, looked at the ticket which it contained and nodded. “Yes, he had lower berth number three, San Antonio to Saltillo.”

  “A one-way or round-trip ticket?”

  “One-way, señor.” He returned the tickets to his pocket, the operation seeming to absorb all his attention.

  Rennert regarded him thoughtfully. “Did you have occasion to notice him particularly last night or this morning? Did you see him talking to anyone, either one of the Pullman passengers or anyone else?”

  The Mexican gave this a great deal of thought before he replied. “No,” he said at last, “I did not see him talk to anyone.”

  Rennert propped a foot against the seat. “About this tunnel through which we passed,” he stared down at his cigarette, “is it not customary to turn on the electric lights of the train when passing through one?”

  The conductor’s face, as smooth in texture as the woodwork behind him, began to look unpleasantly moist. “Certainly, señor,” his cheeks bulged with a pleasant smile, “when it is a long tunnel such as this one.”

  “But the lights were not turned on this time.”

  “No,” the other very carefully smoothed the cuffs of his coat, “the porter will have forgotten to do this. He, too, is new on this run and is not accustomed to the work on a Pullman. Everything is so difficult now, with this strike.” He paused and went on with lowered voice: “I, too, do not work any more on the train when we get to Mexico City.”

  “You are joining the strikers?”

  “No,” his eyes darted to the window, “but it is that I have a wife and children.”

  “You have fear of the strikers?”

  A shrug and an increasingly glassy stare behind the spectacles that were directed at the window.

  Rennert had the curious feeling that an invisible curtain of reserve had been lowered between this man and himself. He took his foot from the seat and sent his cigarette spinning toward the cuspidor.

  At the movement an alertness seemed to come over the Mexican. He took his eyes from the window and regarded Rennert for a moment. Some of the glassiness vanished, replaced by an unexpected amount of shrewdness. “What is your opinion, señor Rennert, about how this man died? You found the body.”

  “I found the body, yes, but I did not examine it carefully. I saw no traces of a wound.”

  The other did not relax the vigilance of his gaze. “You expected,” came the soft question, “to find a wound?”

  Rennert did not reply for a moment. That, he told himself, was exactly the trouble. He had expected to find a wound. This man’s death had followed too closely upon his conversation with Mr. King. And yet, he admitted, there was really nothing to connect the two events. It might be that he was too hasty at jumping at a conclusion.

  “I thought it possible,” he said at last, noncommittally.

  “But might it not have been heart failure?” the conductor dangled hopefully. “The air in the tunnel is very bad, they say.”

  “Yes,” Rennert nodded, “it might have been heart failure. We shall find out when we get to Saltillo.” He turned to the door. As he parted the curtains he was aware that the Mexican was still standing in the center of the room, gazing steadily at his back.

  He almost ran into King, who was standing in the passage, nervously running a finger underneath his wilted linen collar. There was the same worried frown on his face. He moistened his dry lips and said: “I’d like to talk to you a minute, Mr. Rennert.”

  Rennert, wondering if the man had been listening to his conversation with the conductor, replied: “Very well. Shall we go back into the diner?”

  King nodded acquiescence and followed Rennert toward the adjoining car.

  On the platform between the two cars stood Spahr, smoking a cigarette and gazing out at the landscape through eyes partially covered by drawn lids. He turned and grinned at Rennert.

  “Thought you’d change your mind about that beer,” he said. “It helps.”

  Rennert made some reply and was about to continue his way when the newspaperman stepped forward and caught hold of his elbow.

  “Say,” he demanded, “who’s the tall dame back there in the diner? First time I’ve seen her on this trip.”

  “You mean the elderly lady in black?”

  “No, no—this is another one. Looks like one of those society women who endorse cigarette ads.”

  Rennert smiled. “I’m sure I don’t know.” He paused. “She is probably the occupant of the compartment. I believe the conductor mentioned that a lady had it.”

  He pushed open the door of the diner.

  The shades on the east had been lowered against the glare of the sun and light filtered coolly onto white linen and polished silver and tall glass bottles of Arkansas mineral water.

  Smoke was a halo about the head of the woman who sat at a table on the opposite side. She smoked a cigarette in a long jade holder and let the ashes fall at random on the tablecloth or in the plate that held a cup of black coffee. She smoked slowly, inhaling deeply and allowing the blue wisps to trickle from between her red arched lips. She was tall and slender, in a severely plain dress of jade-green chiffon. Her shining honey-colored hair was parted in the middle and drawn back like two lacquered wings to a
smooth knot on the nape of her neck. She was gazing out the window with an expression in her eyes that might have been either infinite boredom or intense inner concentration. Rennert wondered, as he passed her table, how much art had contributed to nature in the production of the fragile beauty and clarity of complexion of her long face.

  He led the way to a table at the far end of the car and sat down. King sank into the opposite chair and removed his pince-nez. As he polished them with the chamois skin Rennert observed the lines etched deeply under the man’s tired eyes.

  “What is it?” he asked, when the other had restored the pincenez to the bridge of his nose.

  King cleared his throat and his fingers fumbled with a knife upon the top of the table. “I have just remembered something,” he seemed to be experiencing difficulty in choosing his words. “You asked me this morning if the reference which my wife heard to the platform at San Antonio meant anything to me. I told you then that it didn’t. Well,” he paused, “I remember now that something did happen there. I don’t know whether it’s important or not but I thought that I ought to tell you—in view of what has happened back in the Pullman.”

  Rennert was immediately alert. “Yes?” he prompted.

  “It was last night, while we were waiting for the Pullman to be opened. A man fainted on the platform and had to be carried away.”

  Rennert waited and when King did not go on said: “And that’s all?”

  “Yes, that’s all. There was a crowd there waiting on trains and this man was quite a distance away from my wife and myself, so that we didn’t see him very plainly. There was some confusion, though, and someone told us that a man had fainted. We got on the train soon after and that’s the last I thought of it until a few minutes ago.”

  Rennert’s gaze was on a stunted mesquite tree that perched in utter isolation on a rocky slope far above them. It stood silhouetted sharply against the hot blue sky and in the sky, lazy and black and sinister, floated a zopilote, the gaunt vulture that is a sentinel of every Mexican landscape.

  Rennert’s thoughts were attuned to the stark grimness framed by the window. Last night a man had fallen unconscious upon the platform at San Antonio. Some time after midnight an individual on the Pullman (an individual with a “foreign” voice) had threatened another individual with—what? Exposure, probably, unless the latter got off the train at Monterrey and obtained some money. The train had passed Monterrey; none of the Pullman passengers, as far as he had ascertained, had left the train; and a man (who would, judging by his appearance, have a distinctly “foreign” voice) had died in the darkness of the tunnel. It all fitted, he told himself soberly, too well to be explained by coincidence.